Frayed
by Shobogan
Summary: Angel tries to mend a friendship torn by his bloody past.


Angel only hears the knock because he's reclining on the first floor sofa, one hand spread across his bandaged stomach and the other propping open an old book he'd forgotten he had. He winces as he grabs the top of the couch to pull himself up, sliding the book to a newly empty cushion.

Once he's sitting, though, he simply stares at the door, brow furrowed in wary confusion. Cordelia doesn't knock as a rule and Wesley wouldn't come this late unless they were on a case. Maybe he's checking up on him? No.

The knocks become louder, almost ferocious, and with a grim sigh he presses up from relative comfort and into questionable territory. "I'm coming," he says irritably, because he's certainly not going to rush and tear the rough stitching. It wouldn't be holding now if he were human.

His door is spared any further abuse as he makes his ginger way towards it, and he turns the knob with a sharp twist before yanking it inward. Why isn't it locked? He'd told Cordelia to –

"Kate." He stands there with wide eyes, awkward surprise echoing uselessly in his ears as he stares. His hand falls limply to his side before rising to grip the doorframe, to keep himself in place.

Her posture is stiff, almost rigid, like she's interrogating a suspect instead of…visiting a friend, which she isn't, he supposes. Her hair is pulled back, and it emphasises the shadow under her eyes, narrow and closed and it's all his fault.

"Hi." Her voice is just as taut. He waits, but of course that's all she says, she never made it easy.

"Um, hi." He lowers his eyes, staring at the threshold she used to cross without a thought. He can feel her gaze, burning right into him, and who needs sunlight when you have lost friends.

"I needed – I wanted…" He looks up just as she roughly runs a hand through her hair, mussing the ponytail more than it already is. "I'll just…" She's turning, back to the road where her car must be.

"Wait," he says, and it's automatic, just like the hand that reaches out for her.

Kate flinches away from it, spinning sharply to meet his eyes. What does she see in them now? "Don't. Just…just don't."

"I'm sorry," he says softly, stepping back into the doorway. He expected that reaction, and he has no right to be hurt by it.

Kate swallows, arms crossing to give her hands something to clutch, hiding the torn skin of her hands – defensive, vulnerable. "I just…wanted to…I don't know what I wanted." She's looking away, staring at the ground, but her eyes keep darting back to him. Just in case.

"It's okay. I was…just…"

"Recovering," she supplies, nodding towards the hand still hovering over his wound. He doesn't know if her tone really is faintly apologetic or if he just wants it to be.

"Yeah. I don't usually get…impaled, lately. More shot and beaten." He pauses. "Occasionally burned."

"Why do you do it?" So very sudden and she's looking right into his eyes and he can hardly bear it as he waits for her to continue.

"Why do you act the hero when you're – why do you care?"

For a moment, he can only close his eyes. Perhaps she'll see it as the sign of trust it is. "It's…complicated." Kate rolls her eyes and it's almost like nothing has changed, just for a moment.

"Still cryptic. Guess now I know why." His hand tightens on the doorframe, and he can feel old wood bending under the pressure as she turns away from him once more.

"A soul. I was cursed with a soul a hundred years ago. I haven't…" He sees her eyes widening, eyebrows rising in that expression of stubborn, cynical doubt that she does so well, and his tongue is held firm by silent accusation. "I've tried not to kill anyone, since then." Her arms are crossed, and she's regarding him with guarded wariness, and something between pity and disgust lingers in her eyes.

"Good for you."

He doesn't like being on the wrong end of her acerbity. Not tonight. Not when his stomach burns from the inside and his chest aches, all because of one person. "Look, Kate –"

"It was still you, who did all those things, right? You're just a pitbull on his own leash." It would be so easy to look away. To go inside and close the door against her worthy reproach.

Instead, he forces strained speech through dry lips. "I went insane, Kate. A hundred years of blood on my hands and I can still see it every day."

"Is that a deterrent or a temptation?"

"Both." The truth falls from his lips without a thought, and the loss is almost comforting. Her posture loosens, just slightly, and he knows it was the right thing to say. Kate always wants the truth, never took well to bitter words coated in sugar. Maybe he can earn her trust back, this way, if not what they'd once had. Some things can never be retrieved, once lost.

They stand there in silence for some time. Brisk wind tousles her hair, stings his wounds; the moonlight stresses the shadows beneath her eyes, the pallid shade of his skin. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight with determination, muted with uncertainty.

"How many are out there? Monsters. How many of you are there?"

iMonsters/i. He cannot contradict her. "Thousands."

"Is this a war I can win?" He manages a weak smile; it sets her off balance, and her arms fall to her sides as she steps towards him. One less barrier between them, shared devotion mending a frayed connection.

"No. But it's one worth fighting."


End file.
